


Sapphire Snow

by Pearlava



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Miscarriage, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 14:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19152583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearlava/pseuds/Pearlava
Summary: Now living together in Winterfell, Brienne and Jaime face the struggles of life, loss, and love.  Book verse.





	Sapphire Snow

**Author's Note:**

> This is a piece I wrote for a challenge several years ago. Thank you ShirleyAnn66 for giving it a read over, and giving me the courage to post it! This is a very special story to me, and I figured we could all use some JB happiness after the show ending.

Sapphire Snow 

 

It was Sansa who figured it out first.

 

"You've been lying with Ser Jaime, haven't you?" Sansa asked, rhythmically rubbing Brienne's back as she retched.

Brienne didn't answer because she didn't have to.  They were kneeling on the floor, and she felt as though the room were spinning as another wave of nausea threatened to choke her.  She and Sansa often broke their fast together, but lately Brienne could barely swallow tea. On that morning when she grabbed an empty serving bowl to heave into, the truth became too obvious to ignore any longer.   She was grateful for the absence of reproach in Sansa's voice. It would not have surprised Brienne if a scolding followed. But it didn't. Despite having kept her maidenhood precious for so long, giving it to Jaime seemed neither shameful nor scandalous.  She had given up everything else to follow him when he was exiled here to WInterfell, and had done so gladly - following with the gift of her body seemed natural.

"We'll have to call the septon, so the two of you can marry before you start to show," Sansa went on quietly.  "Then the child can carry the Lannister name, and not be....".

_A bastard_ , Brienne thought.  Sansa couldn't even say it, although her own brother was technically one.   What pride was there left to the Lannister name, anyway? The only two survivors were exiled here, and she had followed one of them in particular.

She had never imagined this would happen, always assuming herself to be too much of a freak to ever be a mother.  Even Septa Roelle had warned her as she was betrothed for the first time: "From the manly looks of you, you aren't like to bear children.  But we mustn't let on or your father will never see you married." Then there was Qyburn’s rough and cold examination, where he pronounced her “intact” but could make no guarantees of fertility.

_Father will be so disappointed in me_ , Brienne realized.  But was _she_ disappointed?  Her hand drifted over the plane of her stomach, flat for now, thinking.   _My child, Jaime's child_ ... _our child_.  A combination of the two of them.  Would it have Jaime’s smile, her full lips?  She had no mother to learn from, but still... she felt she could be a good parent.

\----

 

She told Jaime that afternoon, when he returned from riding with Peck, checking on the progress of Winterfell's rebuilding.  She found him in the stables, where he smelled of leather and horse, with hay in his hair. He looked handsome as ever, and Brienne's breath was taken away by the fact that he was hers, that he wanted her. 

He turned as he heard her footsteps.  “Brienne?” He seemed surprised to see her.  Normally she would be working with Podrick and Peck in the practice yard.  Today, though, she was still weary from her morning illness.

"Jaime."  Her own voice sounded foreign amidst the shuffling hooves and crunching of oats.  "How was your ride?"

"Bloody cold, and dull.  We checked the perimeter of the castle.  If the winds would die down, the workers should have the eastern wall finished.”  He paused, raising an eyebrow. "Is something amiss? You look pale."

_He knows me that well._ She froze, her tongue feeling like ice.   "I... I'm well, it's just..". When she didn't continue, he looked at her worriedly.  He could always read her face, there was nothing she could keep from him.

"Now you look as though you've seen a ghost.  Come, out with it, wench."

The words tumbled out then.  "We're going to have a baby. Well, rather, I'm having the baby but it's both of ours and...".

 There was silence.  She saw a range of emotions pass over his face, the same emotions she herself had felt at the realization.  He gripped the side of the stall with his left hand as if to steady himself. For a moment, her breath caught in worry that he would be angry, or send her away from Winterfell in shame.

But after collecting himself, Jaime stepped closer, then took her hand.  "How do you feel?"

She turned up her nose.  "Sick." The symptoms were only supposed to happen in the mornings, but hers tended to linger well into the afternoon.

Jaime chuckled.  "I mean how do you feel about us being parents?"

Brienne gulped.  How could she put these feelings to words?  "Shocked. Terrified. But a little happy, even."  She glanced at her feet, feeling suddenly shy. "How... how do you feel?"

"Why... I feel the same, I believe.  I never thought I would be a true father.”

She reached out to caress his cheek.  "This is not the life we dreamed of, I fear."  Dreams of battlefields and tourneys and clashing swords had given away to a gray life in the north.

Jaime put her arm around her waist and kissed her.  "Frankly I've had enough excitement for one lifetime.  I have my family here, that makes me happy."

_Family_.  She didn't have much of that growing up, with the loss of her mother and siblings.  Now she would have her own.

Jaime cocked his head, his eyes searching hers.  "But you still won't marry me, will you?" he asked.

"No... not yet.  Someday, but not now."  He has asked her soon after she arrived in Winterfell.  He couldn’t possibly have meant it, why would he want her?  So she had turned him down, promising to reconsider in the future.

He sighed.  "Why not?

"I don't want to be your obligation, Jaime.  I want you to _want_ to marry me, for no other reason.   Rushing to get married wouldn't change it, and I am not ashamed to carry your child.  I've never quite done things the way women are supposed to, anyway."

He groaned, rolling his eyes.  "If this child is as stubborn as you, I'll have to pray for patience."

This prompted a laugh from Brienne.  "Prayer may not even help you."

\----

 

They made the announcement at dinner that evening. 

Tyrion grinned and called for a toast.  "It will be nice to have a child around," he said, raising his glass. "Here in our Gods-forsaken corner of the north, the Castle of Exiled Misfits."  The title Lord of Winterfell was hardly a fair trade-off for the Rock in his eyes. Sansa exchanged a secretive smile across the table with Brienne. She had bravely accepted duty, her role as Lady of Winterfell not without sacrifice.  For that, she earned admiration from Brienne, and their friendship was a strong one despite their outer differences.

“A baby,” Sansa said, “will bring us all great joy.  Thank the gods.”

\----

 

Weeks passed and the sickness began to abate.  Brienne felt stronger, the idea of a new person growing inside of her seemed natural.  She felt more alive, tied to the earth and the generations of women before her. All her life she had been mocked, and now - in choosing her own path, loving a man, and carrying his child - she indeed felt contentment.

"It's a girl," she told Jaime one night in bed as they were drifting off, squeezing his hand.

He snorted in response.    "How can you tell?"

"I just do.  A mother knows."

He did not respond, and she had a fearful thought.  Men wanted sons, not daughters. _I’m so stupid_.  "Will you...  be disappointed in a girl?"

"Of course not."  he sounded surprised by her question.  "I'd love to have another version of you."

_Another version of me_ .  The idea frightened Brienne, because she didn't want her child to endure the brutal teasing she experienced.  Just the idea made her fists clench. _Let her be normal, let her be beautiful_ , she prayed silently.  "I want to teach her how to fight.  But what if she wants to be a lady? What if she wants to learn courtly dances and wear beautiful gowns?"

"Then there is no better teacher than Sansa," he pointed out.

Another dilemma crept into Brienne’s mind.  "We can't agree on anything, how will we pick a name?" she wondered.

Jaime's voice was growing thick with fatigue as his arms tightened around her.  "We'll name her after her mother's Isle," he whispered in her ear. "We'll name her after her mother's eyes."

_Sapphire_ .  "Yes," she whispered.   _Perfect_.

\----

  


The cramps came strong and fast as a storm, on a bright sunny morning while Brienne was wondering if perhaps Spring was closer than they all thought. 

She was in the armory with Podrick, helping him find a new shield.  He was growing stronger and more skilled as time went by. Although he was technically Tyrion’s squire again, Brienne would always have a soft spot for him.  She hadn't felt well all morning -- fatigued and flushed, achy all over. Now here she was, doubled over in pain. Fire stabbed her lower belly. _It couldn't be_.  It was far too soon.  She had been careful - so careful!  The dark red staining her light-colored breeches revealed her worst fears.

"Ser? My lady?"  Podrick was looking at her in horror.  The room was spinning.

"No," she screamed as she saw the blood.  "NO!" The very thought, the pain was too much, and she almost welcomed the blackness that fell over her as she crumpled to her knees.

\----

 

The whispers were all the same:   _a blessing, better to never live than to be a bastard, the child might have been malformed_.  Through the thick fog in her mind she heard the maids who pressed cool clothes to her burning forehead, old maester Peyson who spooned foul-tasting liquids into her mouth ("to cleanse your womb", he'd said).

"I'm unfit to bear children, is that it?" she asked him.

"Twas an infection of the womb, my lady. You were not that far along.  Once you are healed you may again conceive."

The next question hurt to say, it threatened to choke her.  "Could... could you tell the sex of the child?"

He was quiet a moment.  "A girl."

Brienne's eyes filled with tears.  "I knew that. I already knew." _It was my doing_ , the voice in her head repeated.  I must have done something wrong. She rubbed her stomach, feeling so hollow.  How could someone disappear so quickly?

 

For three days she would allow no visitors, not even Jaime.   _He probably hates me_ , she thought.   _I killed our child_.   The first night he had banged on her door and threatened to have it pulled off the hinges.  "Please, Brienne, just let me in," he'd begged. But her mouth stayed silent and her door stayed barred, and she wept alone.  Time passed with restless bouts of dreamless sleep.

Soon she felt strong enough to sit, and spent much of her time staring blankly out the window onto Winterfell's courtyard.  People came and went, the world was going on, but her daughter had died before even having a chance to live in it. She cared not for food nor drink, each tray that was brought for her was untouched when retrieved.

 

It was Tyrion who finally broke through.

He knocked one evening, and she reluctantly let him in.  The two of them formed a bond almost immediately after meeting.  Both had spent their lives being scorned for their appearance, judged for what made them different.  And they had a common love in Jaime.

Tyrion strolled in, carrying a cup of wine.  Unable to look at him, Brienne retreated to her chair and curled up under a blanket.

"I'm sorry for your loss, my lady.”  He was genuine in his sympathy, but the comment was met with silence.  He went on. “It turns out you could have been lost as well, the maester said.  A serious infection.”

"I don't care."

"Jaime does.  He'd be lost without you, I fear."  He swirled his cup and sipped thoughtfully.  "You blame yourself," Tyrion stated.

"Of course I do," she whispered, the truth stinging.  "I failed Renly, I failed Lady Catelyn, and now... I failed...".  She couldn't say it out loud. _I failed our child._

Tyrion sat down across from her.  He studied her, tapping his fingers on the small table.   "All my life I was blamed for killing my mother, you know.  She died giving birth to me. My father hated me for it, as did my sister and probably more people than I know."

Brienne’s eyes widened.  "That's ridiculous. You were only a baby." 

“A monster baby who killed Joanna Lannister by coming into this world.”

“How terrible that anyone would blame an innocent child.”

His eyebrows raised.  "You are no more responsible for this loss than I am for my mother."

Stubbornly, Brienne shook her head.  "This is different. I ruin everything I touch."  She thought of Catelyn, of Renly, of her betrothals and her father's hopes.  She was a failure at everything. Randyll Tarly had once labeled her a curse, and perhaps he was right.

But Tyrion continued.  "And what of Jaime? You stood by him when no one else did.  You have hardly ruined _him_.  On the contrary, you brought back the brother I once knew long ago.  The Jaime I thought was dead."

"Jaime is a man grown.  He changed on his own." Her heart ached, she missed him.

"You can't deny your influence.  My brother tends to use his mouth more than his brain.  He's made some terrible decisions, as have I. But for all of his faults... he does love you.” 

After everything, it was still hard to accept the idea that Jaime loved her.  Why would he? “You... you think he loves me?”

“Trust me.  Like you, I’ve known scorn and ridicule.  But I know love when I see it. And I know my brother.”

"I don’t know what to do anymore,” she confessed.  She felt lost, her world obliterated.

Tyrion smiled.  "Well, for starters, marry Jaime, so he will cease his whining.  Then have a brood of children to keep things lively around here. Maester Peyson said there is no reason to believe you couldn't still have healthy children.”

She couldn't imagine Jaime wanting to touch her, in that way.  "It will be different, between Jaime and I."

"Perhaps," Tyrion stood and rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment..  "But if Jaime and I could rebuild our relationship, after everything...”, he cleared his throat, shrugging.  “You both need to grieve and heal... best do it together."

 

Tyrion was right.

 

She left her door unbarred that night, and Jaime slipped in before the moon had fully risen.  Quietly, he slid under the covers next to her. He started to move, then hesitated before she finally felt his arms go around her.  All she could manage to whisper was his name.

"Jaime".  

She reached out to touch his face, and her fingers felt dampness.  She did not grieve alone. "You wanted her, too."

"Yes."

\----

 

"Stop fidgeting!" Sansa complained as she tried to weave blue ribbons into Brienne's hair.

“My apologies.”  Brienne turned up her nose.  She hadn't wanted a fancy wedding, but it was Sansa who insisted.

_"Indulge her," Jaime had said.  "Her own wedding was a disaster, allow her the kindness of setting up ours.”_

_"Fine, but I'm not wearing a gown,” she had replied._

_"I wouldn't expect you to.  I saw you in a dress once, and don't care to revisit that time."  After a time, things were returning to normal. They were learning to laugh again._

Satisfied with her handiwork, Sansa excused herself to oversee preparations for the banquet.  As she left, a maid slipped into the room bearing a tiny box. "Ser Jaime sent you this,” she explained.

Brienne frowned.  She wasn't interested in jewelry at all, what was he thinking?  He had already given her a new dagger inlaid with onyx as a wedding gift.  When the maid left, she opened the box carefully. It was indeed jewelry but not what she expected.  The necklace was plain, but it was the pendant that stole her breath: a tiny carved snowflake, laid with sapphires.   _Sapphire Snow_.

\--------

 

Bennett lashed out with his little wooden sword, but Josefyn danced aside as quick as a cat.  

Josefyn laughed.  "You're too slow!"

"And you're just a girl!" he hissed, striking out but again missing.

"So?  Mother says I can do anything boys can do."  As if to prove her point, she dodged his last strike and her sword poked his belly, causing him to stumble back and fall to his rump.  Bored at the lack of a challenge her brother provided, she tossed her sword down and started to walk away. "And I do them all better than you," she called over her shoulder.

Both the landing and the comment hurt, and in his anger and embarrassment, Bennett tried to come up with a return insult.  Brushing the dust from his breeches, he stood and scowled. His big sister was _always_ picking on him, it wasn't _fair_.  He wrinkled his nose and shouted as loud as he could, "You're a...  you're a stinking.... whore!" He had heard Uncle Tyrion use the word often.

Josefyn's mouth dropped open, aghast.  "I am telling our lord father, and you'll be sorry!"  Her face reddened, and she ran off.

Before long his father appeared, looking stern.  Bennett looked at the ground, kicking his boots in the dirt.  His bottom still hurt where he fell. _I must not cry, a Lannister does not cry_.  "Are you going to make me say sorry?" he mumbled.

"What do you think, Bennett?"

"I think you're going to make me."

His father squatted down, taking Bennett's hand between his good hand and golden one.  He loved his father's golden hand, but when he once told his father he wanted one too, his father said he must never say that again.

"I do believe you have my mouth, and it will get you in trouble."

Confused, he reached out and brushed his fingers across his father's lips.  "I do not. Your mouth is right there." Since he was already in trouble, he didn’t want to be accused of stealing, too.

"I just mean, you are like to say things you shouldn't.  Like me."

"I hate her," he sniffed.  He still hurt where he landed in the dirt.  "I hate having a sister."

"I know you're angry.  Bennett, dealing with women is never easy.  That's why we men have to stick together. They can be stubborn."

"Not Mother, though."

His father snorted.  "Yes indeed, your mother.  She is the most stubborn of all women."

"You didn't like each other at first." 

“No, we certainly didn’t.”

Bennett knew the story well, his father and mother fighting with swords and rolling about in a stream.  But the victor depended on which of his parents told the story. "But you love her now?"

"Very much."

“Josy knocked me down hard, and she made fun of me.”  Despite his best efforts, a few tears slid down his cheeks.

“I will talk with your sister about being gentler when you play.  The next time she makes you angry, come talk to me. You must never call a woman names.”

Bennett tilted his head, confused.  "But you call Mother ‘wench’ all the time."

His father's eyes twinkled.  "That I do... but, your mother likes it."

"Then why did she throw a towel at you yesterday?"

"We were just playing.  I'll make a deal with you.  I won’t tell your lady Mother about this if you do something for me:  you will go to your sister and apologize, and give her a hug."

"Must I hug her the way you hug Mother?"

His father's eyes widened in horrified understanding.  One night after having a bad dream, Bennett had slipped into his parents' room hoping for comfort, only to find them in a strange full-body embrace under the sheets.  The noises they were making were scarier than the dragon in his dream, so he'd left, and the next morning at breakfast asked why Father had been lying atop Mother. His mother's face had turned as red as a rose, Aunt Sansa started choking, and Uncle Tyrion was laughing too hard to speak.  His father took him aside after breakfast to explain that what he had witnessed was a special kind of hug that mothers and fathers give each other.

"No, you don't hug your sister that way," his father gasped now.  "Someday, you'll find a lovely lady to hug that way, but... not yet."

Bennett wrinkled his nose in disgust.  "Oh no, I will never hug a girl like _that_."

Father burst into laughter and stood just as another voice sounded out across the courtyard.

"What's going on here?"

"Mother!"  Bennett ran to his mother and she caught him up in her arms.  He had the best mother in the world! She was bigger than all the other women, but that made her hugs even better.   She was strong and could protect him from anything. And she was the best singer, too. Many nights he fell asleep to her songs of knights and maidens and glory.

As she held him, his fingers fiddled with the charm that always hung around her neck.  He once asked her about it, but she seemed sad, and told him he almost had another sister.  Bennett wondered if that sister would be nicer than Josefyn. He thought she probably would have been, and that made him sorry.

"Nothing, just men's business," his father grinned, walking over to join them.

"He's too little to be a man," his mother sighed. 

"Bennett has to go tell Josefyn something, don't you?"

"Yes," he grumbled.  For now, he snuggled into his mother's embrace a little tighter.  "Do you like it when Father calls you a wench?"

She laughed.  "What sort of nonsense have you been telling our son?"

"He's a quick, observant little lad, just like me."

" _Do_ you like it?" Bennett pressed.

She smiled, unable to fake annoyance any longer.  "I used to hate it, but I... I don't anymore. It's  a special name, Bennett. It brings back memories."

“Do you understand the difference?” his father asked, lifting an eyebrow.  Bennett supposed ‘whore’ wasn’t as nice a word as ‘wench’, then. He nodded.\

His mother gently returned him to the ground and took his hand.  "Come, your Lord Grandfather is coming all the way from Tarth, and we must make sure everything is ready to welcome him properly."  As the three began to return to the castle, she suddenly stopped in her tracks.

 

It had begun to snow. This was strange, a Spring snow.   It was a heavy and wet, making it appear a shimmering blue instead of white.  His mother held her palm out flat, catching one of the flakes in her hand. Smiling, she reached up and touched his father's face, watching it melt between the warmth of their skin.

 


End file.
